


Longing

by thedevilchicken



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 02:19:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/pseuds/thedevilchicken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor thinks he should hate himself for thinking about her. He finds it hard to muster the enthusiasm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Longing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [smaragdbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smaragdbird/gifts).



> A quick warn for a little pr0n, but there's nothing totally uber-graphic!

Sandor thinks that he should hate himself, but he can never muster the enthusiasm. Seems it's not part of his nature, like so many things aren't.

He thinks he should hate himself because he thinks about her. Perhaps not just for the fact of the matter but for the extent of it or the depth or the shame or how utterly pathetic it truly is. She's a Stark of Winterfell, for whatever that's ever meant besides the fact she thinks she's so much better than the son of a son of a kennelmaster. He doesn't care what she thinks. She's a pretty little bird with no thoughts in her head that weren't put there by her betters.

He thinks he should hate himself because he _still_ thinks about her. It was worthy of scorn back in King's Landing, when he wore the cloak and guarded her at Joffrey's command. _King_ Joffrey, as was, though not for long. They all called him the Hound and he took it well enough, took it from her like he wouldn't when she slipped and called him _Ser_. She always had a twisted sentimental view of knighthood, like a royal benediction and a night's vigil in the Great Sept of Baelor made a man somehow more than he'd been before. Sandor's all that he's ever been, even now he has nothing. The loss of his sword, his winnings, that blasted helmet, it's nothing. The pretty bird could never know that. Or if she knew it she'd know the fact by rote; she couldn't understand.

He still thinks about her, even now he's far away, even now they all think he's dead. He sleeps under trees with a dagger in his belt, he sleeps in stables, sleeps in burned out shells of the abandoned houses where the war's been. He sleeps wrapped in his cloak, half-sleeps at least because there's so many people out there want him dead, wouldn't piss on him if he were burning. He's burned enough for one lifetime, couldn't even burn for her that day the dwarf ordered him into the Wildfire. If he'd died, would she think well of him? He sneers at himself for the thought. What did it ever matter? What could it matter now?

He lays awake and watches the stars through the window of the latest house. There's a bed here, too short for his frame but a bed's better than another night on the ground, in the rain, in the snow, soaked to the bone till shivering's the only thing that makes him warm except when numbness comes. They left blankets so he'll take those with him, a few pots of moulded food that made him frown, a jar of jam he ate spooned from his fingers. An unfinished tunic hung half knitted from an overturned chair. Whichever army had been by that way had broken the spinning wheel, not that Sandor had designs on learning a trade besides butchery. There was a stream nearby he could just hear over the sound of his breath. He'd passed the remains of two butchered cows on his way there, stinking food for flies. It was somewhere simple people had lived simple lives, before the war. He envies them.

Sandor knows little of simplicity. He'd lived in the shadow of his brother in a way that was both the literal and metaphoric truth for his whole life; Gregor was the leader of the house, the giant, the raper, the killer, the warrior, the Mountain that Rides. Sandor's never begrudged him that 'cause it's his right, the elder son's right. What he begrudges him is his face, the place where his jaw shows through the skin, the way he made him a coward where there's fire just because he knows how it feels to burn, to smell your flesh cook in the fire, to feel your flesh char and sag and drip from your bones. They all thought he'd die. Gregor never said or did the slightest thing to persuade him he hadn't willed his death. Sandor's not so morose just yet that he wishes he'd died that day himself - he just thinks that should Gregor try it now, he'd put up more of a struggle.

He thinks about her when he lays awake at night. His mind skips from one thing to another, races like it never did when he had beer and wine and mead to dull it down. But in the end, he always comes back to her. The pretty bird in her cage in King's Landing, singing for the court when they told her, chirping on demand. He hated the way Joffrey had her beaten, humiliated her. He doesn't care that she's a lady, a high one, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, doesn't care not just because that bastard Ilyn Payne put her father to the sword. What does a dog care for the lords and ladies of the kingdoms? He only knows he's wanted her, coveted, thought about her late at night when he ought not. She'd been betrothed to his king and back then he was nothing if not his master's loyal dog.

Even after the engagement broke, when Margaery Tyrell came to wed King Joffrey, he wanted her. He should have taken her, he thinks, as he stares at the stars. He should have gagged her, thrown her over his shoulder and taken her away, taken her with him, _taken_ her outside the walls, outside King's Landing, past the burning river. He left her to her dull coward Dontos Hollard. He resents that now, regrets it, hates that that fool has her and he can't. Hollard will get himself killed one day and Sandor's pretty bird with him. He swears he'll kill the oaf if she meets death without him but because of him. He'll take on all the men in King's Landing if he has to. It's foolhardy at best, it's suicide at worst, but this time he could wade through a river of wildfire to take her.

And he wants to take her. He should hate himself for thinking it, but he's wanted her all along.

He remembers the tourney, the only tourney he cares to remember, the day he told his pretty bird a story he'd sworn he'd never tell a soul. He still can't say why he did it, if he meant to spite his brother, if he meant to make her pity him, meant to make her see him for the man he was and is. She'd already seen him for everything he stood for the day he killed the boy on the road from Winterfell, the day they killed her wolf, and nothing would change how she looked at him, the cringe that was never far from her pretty little face. Telling him his brother burned him over some useless, discarded, throwaway toy, that couldn't make her look at him and not see the Hound, the monster, the face no woman could love. Not without a gold dragon in her pocket and a bed under her back.

He remembers the beatings and what he would have done to stop them, one day, one day. A loyal dog he may have been but it would have been so easy, Cersei Lannister be damned. He wanted to undress her, unlace her clothes and lay her down, lay his fingers on the bruises the others had left, Blount had left. The fat disgrace seemed to like to beat her. He wishes he'd killed him, put a hand over his mouth and a dagger in his belly and told him that was for Sansa Stark. He wonders if she'd think that was romantic. He wonders if he's lost his mind.

He remembers the night he left. She was pretty and frightened and he was drunk, so drunk by rights he shouldn't remember that night at all. He went to her before he left because he had to go to her, the only one in the city he would have ever missed if the whole place burned, if it went up in smoke and all those hot green flames charring stone, licking the sky. He didn't want her to burn, remembers that thought fixed in his head as he spoke to her, as he said he'd take her with him, as he left downhearted and desperate. He'd get away from that place. He'd hope the fool in his motley would find some courage at the bottom of his bottle and save his pretty bird's life instead of killing her.

But he should have taken her with him. He should have made her go, fuck decorum, fuck making her understand. Gag her, tie her wrists and feet... take her jewellery 'cause they'd need it on the way, wrap her in a blanket and run. Find a horse and ride. Get away, get far away, get anywhere but there until he could have taken off the gag and explained himself, explained the danger she was in and how he couldn't allow that. She would have screamed and shouted, tried to run each time his back was turned, but he'd bring her back and they'd move on, north, past Harrenhal where one ruled in the morning and another in the afternoon. They'd get past the Twins, stay off the Kingsroad past Moat Cailin, Torrhen's Square. By the time they reached Winterfell, maybe the Stark lad would have won.

They would have stayed in broken houses just like this one. She wouldn't cook because she wouldn't know how - her Septa likely taught her dancing and embroidery and all of the skills well-bred young ladies needed in the world. She knew songs and stories so perhaps one night he'd coax her into telling one while he skinned a rabbit and cooked it over a low fire, doused the flames after to keep their presence hidden. They'd be off the beaten track, far from the Kingsroad 'cause he's not a fool. There'd be a bounty set for Sansa Stark, and maybe him, so there'd be no fire at night. Her teeth would chatter and she'd look at him with baleful, hate-filled eyes because she wouldn't remember the beatings and the bruises, how Joffrey had her stripped for his amusement, because what she'd recall was the roaring fires and the plates of food, the lemon cakes she loved and a soft, warm bed at night. Farmers' cottages are harder places.

He'd give her his blanket. She'd thank him, grudging the sentiment but polite despite it, though they'd killed her Septa, her father, probably half her family or more. She'd still equate him with the ones who killed them. He wouldn't blame her or seek to change her mind. She'd know the truth of him.

They'd wash in a stream and he'd watch her, tell himself he was just making sure she didn't run. If she ran she'd die, soon she'd start to understand that. His eyes would move over the curves of her body, otherwise hidden by a dress he'd have stolen for her, something simple, coarse wool, something she'd complain about because her skin was used to silks and satins, not these pauper's rags. She'd come round to the necessity in the end but dislike him for it. He'd offer her a sheet to dry herself and maybe the hate in her eyes would lessen just a fraction every time he did. He'd still tie her to a tree while he bathed himself, unashamed to be naked in front of her, nothing to hide. He doubts his pretty bird has ever seen a man's cock, and she'd blush as she tried not to stare at his.

Some nights there'd be no house, there'd be men from one army or another, there'd be nowhere to sleep but the woods. He'd gag her, tie her ankles, tie her wrists behind her back, tie a rope to a tree and a rope round his waist. He'd wrap her in a blanket and he'd hold her there though she'd mutter her distaste from behind her gag, even as he tried to share his warmth. She'd try to run in the night but he'd catch her easily enough, pull her back in under the blanket, hold her tighter, tell her this was all to keep her safe. She'd never believe him. He wouldn't care. Even beaten dogs can be loyal to their master.

If they strayed far enough, maybe they'd find somewhere to stay more than a single night. They'd find a tumbledown cottage in the grounds of a tumbledown keep and they'd close the door on the world for a while, a week, two. Why not? If they stayed north of Moat Cailin, east of the Stony Shore and west of the Dreadfort, they might manage to live. If they came there in the spring it wouldn't be so bitter in the northern cold and he'd had time to kill her a wolf for the warmth of its skin. He was no farmer but he could hunt and the Wolfswood seemed as good a place as any, the western reaches far from Winterfell where she'd come from. Weeks could be months, he thinks. Maybe she'd realise he took care of her. Maybe if he shored up the walls and thatched the roof she'd know he wasn't going to kill her, wasn't going to trade her, wasn't going to rape her or give her to the Ironmen or the Bolton bastard in the Dreadfort to marry or flay alive.

She'd be grateful, in the end. She’d be thankful. She'd stitch his cuts when he came in from hunting, neat little rows just like her embroidery lessons. She'd help him skin rabbits, pluck feathers out of pigeons, fillet fish if he found them in a stream. He'd trust her with a knife though he'd keep an eye on her, never let his trust for her run _too_ deep as he valued his life far too much. But she'd have nowhere to run to. She'd be more afraid of being alone than being with him.

They'd use the feathers to stuff pillows, save enough to stuff a mattress like the one she had in Winterfell, strewn with skins so she'd be warm all through winter. They'd have salted meat and dried fruits, enough to live on while the snow came. One bitter night she'd climb shivering into his bed, her tremble maybe not just from the cold. She'd close her eyes and rest her head against his chest, let him wrap his arms around her and keep her warm like a good dog might. Her toes would be cold but his feet would warm hers before she slept.

She'd come the next night, and the next night too, climb in beside him and curl up against his chest. She'd sleep so soundly, her pretty red hair spread over his worn nightshirt, her fingers tucked into the collar so they brushed his chest in her sleep. He'd watch her and he'd want her and one night while her eyes were closed up tight, as she pretended to sleep, her warm hand would slip up under his shirt to rest against his belly, rise and fall with his breath. The next night her fingers would stray higher, her arm resting there over his chest. The next, her fingertips would brush at the thick dark hair and the next, her hand would go lower instead, rest an inch beneath the waist of his woollen undertrousers. He can feel how that would feel, almost, as the next night her fingers dipped lower, followed two inches down the trail of hair leading down, inevitably down. Another night and her fingertips would brush the base of his cock and he'd wonder if she knew what she was doing. He doesn't think she's ever touched a man that way. He hopes she hasn't. He hopes she never will if it can't be him; he doesn't care how selfish that may be.

Another night and her hand would rest over the length of him, half-hard from her mock-innocent exploration. Her eyes would still be closed but could she really believe he'd believe her asleep? Perhaps she could, his pretty little bird, or perhaps she'd just have nerves. He'd let her hand rest there, let her feel the little jumps of excitement before they went to sleep. She wrap her hand around him the next night, she'd just hold him and that would feel like no torture that he's ever felt, the aching hardness of his cock as he'd fight to keep still despite himself. Then the next night she'd stroke, slowly, hesitant in each movement. She wouldn't know what she was doing, he reminds himself. She'd need instruction. So the next night when she reached for his cock he'd wrap his big hand over hers, make it tight, show her exactly how to touch him until he was breathless with it. Then he'd pull away, leave the bed and leave the room, spill his seed in the dying embers of the hearth and wipe himself clean before he went back to the bed, to her.

When she'd kiss him, nights later, a little bolder, she'd be so scared her heart would drum against his chest. Her lips would find his shoulder, his collarbone, the crook of his neck, the corner of his mouth, and he'd let her do it without reprisal. He'd concentrate on the shift of her hand around his cock, the exquisite torture of her slow strokes while her eyes stayed closed and she felt her way over him. Perhaps she'd be afraid to see his face and remember he was the one she was touching, not her knight, her champion, her Florian.

The next night, she'd come to his bed and let her nightdress fall from her shoulders before slipping between the sheets. She'd press against him, all soft skin and warm hands, hair that smelled of heady spice and the snow of Winterfell. Eyes closed, she'd kiss his lips, she'd touch his chest, push up his shirt until he pulled it over his head and let it drop to the floor. Her breasts would be soft and weighty against him, nipples pulled up hard by the chill in the air. She'd pull at his trousers and he'd remove those too, lie back naked under the roughspun sheet and thick skins above. Her hands would move over him, exploring him, touching every inch from his calves to his balls to the nape of his neck. Her fingers would push back his hair. They'd find the burned, twisted side of his face and he'd let her do it. She'd open her eyes. She'd look at him. She'd smile.

It's a dream, of course. It's a fantasy and he should hate himself for the times he's thought of her and what those moments would be like when she'd finally let him touch her, let him take her. He sighs, his breath misting in the cold night air above the blanket, then he ducks beneath. He's a dog, he just has to remember that; the best he could ever hope for is to serve her, guard her, fight for her till she's mistress of Winterfell, maybe queen in King's Landing. He could watch her and then drink away his nights instead of thinking about her, set about whoring the length of the Street of Silk instead of pining for a woman who's above him just because she thinks she is. He should hate her. That's never been a possibility.

He thinks that he should hate himself, but the will's just never there. The next night the thoughts are always back even if he's banished them before, his pretty bird who'll sing for him, his pretty bird locked up tight in her cage in King's Landing. He regrets ever having left her. His pretty bird and her lemon cakes, her pride and her scorn and her pretty, empty head... He could tell her things to fill that empty head of hers, he thinks. He'd fill her up with all the things he's done until she'd either love him or she'd hate him and there'd be nothing in between. He'd like to see which extreme it would be.

But for all he knows, she's dead by now. For all he knows, she wouldn't care if he were. He knows he'll never see her again. All he has now is his wounds, his scars, his life, and his thoughts of Sansa Stark.


End file.
